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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599468">la mel és més dolça que la sang</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/viridiana/pseuds/viridiana'>viridiana</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Artists RPF, Historical RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Death, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, a gratuitous handjob… and more, this is a joke taken way to far, this is like second version cause the first one looked shitty uwu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:35:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599468</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/viridiana/pseuds/viridiana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(...) and it was just at this period that for the duration of an eclipse precisely another shadow, that of Federico Garcia Lorca, came and darkened the virginal originality of my spirit and of my flesh.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Salvador Dalí/Federico García Lorca</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>la mel és més dolça que la sang</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zingomel/gifts">Zingomel</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <a href="https://preview.redd.it/kzkmc8dzmcd41.jpg?auto=webp&amp;s=4df90ae271c7429b40027b7000813089d0bd88a7">this is totally based on this post</a>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <br/>Cecilia, sorry (again) for the waiting &lt;333</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Not that Salvador didn’t knew about Federico before meeting him in person. He recalls reading about him as<em> Spain’s next big name </em> and <em> etc </em> in some art periodicals back at home and even in the delighted way Luis and the other students would speak of him while he was away from the university, but he needed to really meet the man to understand that all of this was true. </p><p>It was the beginning of his years in Madrid and Salvador's clothes, the ones bought while his mother was still alive, still had his initials kindly embroidered by her in the sleeves. While in school it served as a show off to his poorer classmates, in Madrid he just preferred to hide them, afraid people would think of him as nothing but a spoiled little kid in between a city of rising artists and heirs of big properties in some corner of Spain. </p><p>At the same time as him, Federico, in between the back and forth of Madrid-Granada, finally set in the residencia for good. </p><p>Whenever he climbed the stairs back to his room after classes, he knew if he turned his shy gaze away from the up and down of his shoes in the old wooden steps of the institute he would see the poet by the piano in the living room and even at night he would hear him and his friends at his dorm talking and playing loud music till he gave up on a good night's sleep. If Luis had not finally acted on his word to introduce them, perhaps their fate would have been completely different.</p><p>For Salvador, if his impressions of the other even after meeting him were still of dislikeness or, as much as he tried to pretend, envyness — the poet’s natural sociability, something so hard to Salvador, and his various artistic talents flustering him into doubting himself whenever he was in his company — Federico could defy: to him, his carapace of eccentricness, odd outfits and shy nature, only served to catch more of his interest. </p><p>Federico didn’t see him as competition like he thought, but was actually trying to mingle him in his group of friends and even taking care of him, bringing him food when he couldn’t come to the refectory and knocking at his door at night to certify he wouldn’t stay awake all night. He was the only one that could truly laugh at his odd jokes and match his eccentric temperament. </p><p>The painter soon forgot whatever paranoias of rivalry he had with the poet as their friendship grew. If Salvador was a sentimentalist, as Federico was, he could say that their meeting was part of a bigger destiny and that even the things that contrasted them, his paganism and the wet christian storm that was the poet, only served to increase the mutual fascination that surrounded them.</p><p>Federico and his friends weren’t as he first thought and soon he was part of them, leaving behind his flamboyant attires to new, clean-cut british suits that marked the group of frat boys that they were, cynical dandies spending their fathers’s money in drinks and cigarettes like it was worth nothing. </p><p>Federico was so much as a wave of new, astonishing things to him. Someone who knew everyone and had been everywhere, who could go from reciting Ruben Dario by heart to playing some popular tune from Sevilla on a piano. </p><p>Salvador, however, was just a new rich’s son who spent all of his life til now under the hot sun of Cadaqués or hiding in his room in Figueres. Federico was the paradigm of everything he felt like he'd been missing and he couldn’t help the jittering feeling that ran down his spine whenever he thought of those deep dark eyes staring at him.</p><p>He heard the way some people would gossip about the other, even the “Federico is a great man, <em> but… </em> ” from Luis when they were alone and worried if they speculated the same thing about him. It didn’t seem fair to disregard the poet for something like this, and Luis himself seemed to forget these things when he always sat so close to Federico as they whispered inside jokes Salvador didn’t understand.</p><p> He was certain he wasn’t <em> one-of-these </em> people, he had kissed some girls before back at home, and his catholic upbringing and Freud readings should have scared him enough to avoid even thinking about being an <em> invertido </em> of any sorts, but these thoughts were always crossing his head even so often.</p><p>In his youth, between classes of classic literature and religion, just the quiet secrets about the spring of life shared with his male classmates seemed more enticing to him than the inappropriate pictures of women they would show him afterwards. Now, with Luis and Pepín always eager to meet ladies downtown and inviting him along, just the thought of Federico could lure him out. Federico, who would never come to these things, would be ready to pull him out of their influence before he could even think of it, the soft feeling of a hand in his arm to call him into his room more than enough of a promise of an afternoon in his company. </p><p>Salvador seemed to magnet around the poet like a moon at it’s planet, but to his frustration a lot of other people also did. Federico was a charmer and wherever he came around everyone fell under his spell, making it hard to even find him alone. But Salvador knew — or hoped — Federico perceived he was the only one there de facto on his matching, that he also felt the near feverish state when he thought of him and longed to have him alone without such interruptions as much as Salvador.</p><p>He remembers playing cards with Federico and Luis at his bedroom, waiting for the latest to return from the bathroom, contemplating if he should use the opportunity to start a conversation or leave the man, who just stared at the wall tediously, undisturbed. Suddenly, he would feel a hand on the top of his knee, raising his head to take a proper look at the poet who just glared at him back, mouth opened as if wanting to say something. </p><p>Until some time ago he thought he would never feel a touch more intimate than a handshake from Federico, but now he had his hand warm against his leg and maybe he was focusing on the wrong thing, but when he looks back at the poet he seems as off-track as him.</p><p>Salvador doesn't even hear the door creaking open, just sees the way Federico withdraws his hand just as abruptly and closes his mouth, not even a word said between then before his face turns impassive just like before as he looks back at his cards. When Luis sits back and asks what happened, the painter is still returning to his senses to even say something and is Federico who breaks the silence, a lie on the tip of his tongue like he already knew what to say even before the door opened. He looked so calm, pretentious like he was, as if he wasn't just as flustered as Salvador by the intrusion.</p><p>Luis seems to accept it as an answer by the way he just laughs and picks his cards again, the game returning as if nothing had happened, but back in his room Salvador can’t even concentrate on his books as he recalled that moment, an inexplicable blush rising on his face evene hours later as he wondered shamelessly what he should have done.</p><p>Even the other day he would be with the poet in his bedroom, waiting for him to finish dressing up so they could go out. He had everything done up except for his tie, that he clumsily tried to arrange only for the knot to come undone again, sighing dramatically as he let his hands fall to his sides and staring annoyed at the window.</p><p>“Just let me do it” Salvador would say naively as he approached the other man like he really needed the help, patting his hands away so he could work, giving a proper knot and quickly adjusting it against his jacket. </p><p><em> Then </em>would he notice the situation, one of his hands around the poet’s neck and the other firm on his upper arm. Salvador felt the tip of his ears burn and prepared himself to have Federico brush him away in distaste, even if his face just seemed impassive as always. Whatever could have happened became just thoughts to later tantalize his mind when there’s a knock on the door and it’s Salvador himself who jerks away, Pepín on the other side of the door shouting something about hurrying up.</p><p>If when he looks back at Federico his lips are pursed and he's taking a deep breath, eyes lost in the white of the dormitory walls, he tries to not think too much about what it should mean - and maybe Salvador should have noticed what was happening early. </p><p>However, it was only in his second year in Madrid, in between the breezy autumn of the city, the boring tradicional classes on San Fernando and the casual visit to the highest bars in town where even the police wouldn’t dare impose a curfew that Salvador’s feelings acted upon him in a way he knew he fucked up. </p><p>None of the things that happened before between them matter anymore when Federico is staring at him on the other side of the table and Salvador follows the tilt of his head at him to the piano in the corner.</p><p>It was the celebration of something or someone Salvador didn't even know, but Federico and Luis had importune him to come for so long he couldn’t decline. Hours had passed of enthusiastic young men telling stories and jokes and swallowing down every alcoholic drink they could afford in the menu but none of those things mattered anymore because Federico was looking at him and calling him away.</p><p>When salvador can disentangle himself from the horde of drunk students and sits next to him, Federico is already on a song, one he remembers seen him play at the residence and made him murmur a low <em> hmhmhm </em>and then Salvador is lost to his sounds and the shift of his fingers along the tiles. It was a pleasant silence between them and maybe that's what Federico wanted, to just relish his company the way Salvador was pining too.</p><p>Federico is smirking at him with a funny look on his face and Salvador realizes he's been staring for too long and he’s not playing anymore. The poet cleans his throat and suddenly his attentions are back at the piano and the random black tite title he passed his finger without pressing and it is like everything was planned when he speaks “I was invited to make a lecture in Barcelona in during the Semana Santa, if you are close by you should— come and see me”.</p><p>And then the poor poet is being assaulted by <em> when are you leaving? Where are you staying? You should come with me and my family in Cadaqués </em> and <em> -no, i’m sure they wouldn’t mind</em>. Salvador still felt the alcohol burning down his throat and lighting his thoughts but Federico was like this too and maybe that's why they both agreed to this too quickly, smiling at one another as they assorted the rest of the details of their trip and thanking everybody else for being too drunk to bother them in the moment. </p><p>Now, Salvador tried to blame the alcohol for his forwardness. He was always so timid and hesitant with everyone else and now he was inviting to his house a man he spent most of the year anxious to even look him in the eyes and hold a conversation.</p><p>Having Federico alone was what he had been wanting - he even had rehearsed more than once in the several times he dozed off in class different scripts of how he would talk to him. <em> You know Nietzsche said- </em> and <em> I read everything from Ruben Dario and- </em> but now that this could happen he seemed more uneasy than hopeful.</p><p>He was always so nervous around Federico, his shy nature and the other man’s extroverted one easily made him feel a little more than dizzy. Just a look or touch of the poet could turn him into a mumbling mess and if they wouldn't have someone to interrupt them anymore he didn’t know what could happen.</p><p>He thought back on his awkwardness at the piano, watching the skilled fingers working on the instrument with such chariness and exactness he couldn’t look away. He wondered when Federico learned to play, it funnied him to imagine an even younger Federico divided between decorating chords and poetic metrics.</p><p>His shoulder would keep brushing against Federico’s own and he could feel it even through the fabric of his jacket. When the poet is focused once more on the piano, Salvador uses it as an excuse to keep staring at him, seeing as he bit his lip in concentration and even the sporadically looks he would give in his direction smirking friendly. </p><p>Salvador blamed the booze in his system once more as these moments just wouldn’t vanish from his mind. It was a rarity, but seemed like the director's efforts finally worked and the institute was in complete silence and he could even hear the crackling of the wooden floor and the sound of his heavy breathing.</p><p> It definitely had to be alcohol and the long weeks of abstinence since arriving in Madrid that made his blood run the way down his body and his hand to go along. </p><p>He tried to trick his mind into picturing some pretty girl he did see around the city or even the ones back at home, but he already had a headache that beat rhythmically to the songs he heard early and whenever he closed his eyes his mind always returned to the piano, the hands, the mouth and <em> Federico.</em></p><p> If he could get his hands anywhere on his skin, feel them unbuttoning his shirt, grabbing the strands of hair on the nape of his neck that always stayed out when he put in gel and maybe even feel his palms fumbling down his chest right to his— Salvador hips jerked involuntarily at the reverie.</p><p>He adjusted his body on the bed and sighed defeated, letting his mind wonder as he clutched thigher and moved quicker. He wondered if Federico could see the way he always seeked for him in rooms, the way his eyes always chased him around and he only seemed more tempted to get out of his shell and show his best when he knew the poet looked back at him. He let himself conceive if the other man would be as talkative in the intimacy as in public, if the hypnotic tone of his poetry would pass to the way he would speak awful things in his ear, if his own inexperience would serve to instruct him around just like he did wherever they went out, a firmness to his almost constant lostness. </p><p> He could almost feel his accented voice ordering him to stay quiet as he slammed him against the piano to kiss him senseless, a whine stuck at his lips as he visualized those hands roaming down his body and a hot mouth over his as Salvador did nothing but only pliantly welcomed these touches, the sounds stuck deep in his throat so no one of the other men would hear and turn to see them, how much of a mess Federico made of him. </p><p>And when everything is consummated is with a hand against his mouth to muffle the almost-sobbing noises he would later deny himself even happened. Everything is spinning too fast for him to worry about anything but rolling to the other side of the bed as the endorphins softened his headache momentarily, wishing he would just forget this moment in the morning when he sobered up. </p><p>Except it didn’t work. The days passed and Salvador just couldn’t get these sinful images of Federico of his mind wherever he tried to get off.</p><p>He tried getting on with some semi-good-looking girl from the Residencia he’d seen glancing at him anytime he crossed the corridors but even when it finally comes to the kissing part it looks boring, and he couldn’t discern why.</p><p>He tried to occupy his mind with something else, maybe he needed to get some air in his head. He would wake up at the crack of dawn to run around the campus with Luis in his athletic addictions, but all of that was awful and in the first week he would be leaning against a wall in an asthmatic crisis, beginning to suspect Luis was really insane for doing this daily just as the other started to put the pieces together for why he was there.</p><p>He also attempted to ignore Federico, telling him he was too busy studying to go out. Maybe it is because they were spending so much time together that the image of the other man wouldn’t go off of his mind, yet a week passed and his mind would still always return to the poet, these days spent apart from him only worsening his state. </p><p>So Salvador returns to the poet, excusing his absence just a day before Domingo de Ramos. Maybe whatever had gotten into his mind would just go away with time and the fresh airs of his hometown could only improve his condition. He wasn't an animal, he could control himself and if he didn't think about it, his week with Federico could only be good for him.</p>
<hr/><p>Nothing happened between them the first time Federico was there, but, looking back now, it seemed obvious what it was getting up to. To the hug the poet gives him in Barcelona after his successful presentation, the painter blushing profoundly and forgetting all his words in the middle of the street, and even after he leaves, getting all flustered and choking on his own saliva at the implications of his sister coming to ask if he knew if Federico has dating someone. </p><p>The poet made everything he could to charm his family, exhibiting all his talents: telling stories, playing guitar and reading his writing to them, and Salvador had fallen deep down into that trap – but <em> oh </em> how he liked to be in there. The pride he felt in showing off Federico to his family and friends, getting them totally mesmerized by the man’s charm was immeasurable, like a conquest to himself.  </p><p>Like Salvador’s wishes or, better yet, <em> prayers </em> to no god in specific, in Catalunya there were no classes or friends to come bother them. He took federico to every place he thought he would like, to the churches his mother would take him every sunday as a child, to the historical remains of the romans that he loved to read about and the restaurants his family would dine at on every important occasion. He even went to the mass with him, and while the poet seemed lost in the beauty of the iglesia de Santa María he observed that the plaster saints that in his childhood were always so stoic appeared to almost smile back at him now.</p><p>There were no more traces of hesitation in Federico's touches on him, fixing the back of his jacket, a hand on his back in small circles or even twining his fingers in his to get his attention, a false innocence in the way he pulled his hand towards whatever he wanted to show him. Even with the downpour of courtesies, Salvador couldn't deny the satisfaction in being under such ministrations from the poet. He was no longer too shy to look at him and turn his gaze when he saw him looking back nor to jerk his hand away when they brushed against each other.</p><p>An abyss stand between Federico and everyone he met before, where the poet was more fascinating and intelligent than any of them and Salvador was starting to see it clearly now. Federico was himself a fine art and his company was the best thing the painter could’ve done to himself and when the poet’s skin was beginning to tan by all the time they spend in the beach, his black hair pushed back as the last sunlights of the day flooded his face as he smiled at him, Salvador could swear he felt his heart tremble in empathy with the girls that chased him around campus even if Federico clearly couldn’t care less about them.</p><p>Every holiday Federico would be at his house with him and Salvador would wonder why he had ever suspected they wouldn't even work out. As much as the days at that time all looked the same as the idle days of every bourgeois family, Federico always managed to make it interesting. Whether he was playing with him and his sister or going out to meet his friends who soon became his too, everything with him felt like a bliss.</p><p>At night, when he went to his studio he knew it would be just him and Federico and this was more than fine. A silent agreement since his first visit, the poet would come to stay with him, just watching him paint in silence or bringing a book or even a poem he had been working on and read it aloud to him. There was no greater satisfaction than being the first to hear these verses, Federico's calm and smooth voice and clean verses covering the top of his sky and when he finishes his paintings he no longer knows if what he sees is his or Federico’s words reflected. </p><p>In one of those particular nights Salvador remembers the argument he had with his father. Nothing new to Ana Maria, who soon turned to talk to Federico and pretend that the tense atmosphere did not exist, but he noticed that the poet was uneasy. When Federico comes to the studio later that night, always such a sensible soul like he was, he just stays silent for long minutes — strangely quiet for someone like him — and is Salvador who was to approach him and break the silence to see if he is doing fine.</p><p>There’s a concerned tone in his voice as he says several things that Salvador prefers not to really listen to, about his father being wrong and that Salvador had a great future in art and he would see it and <em> etc</em>. </p><p>Federico was always so open about how he felt, like he was certain of his feelings and not ashamed of them, guess that’s what being a poet was about. Even if Salvador knew he had the best of intentions when he wanted to talk about these things with him, he just preferred to let it eat him away.</p><p> Sure he told him about his family before. The day they isolated themselves in his room in the residencia on a stunt, relying on friends to bring food and water and the only thing they had to do was talk, explained to him how since his mother died and his father married again their relationship never been the same but nothing more.</p><p> He was so used to ignoring his own feelings, burying them deep down in the soil of his mind whenever they bothered him that just the white cleaness of Federico’s honesty and everything he was felt like a menace to him.</p><p>He babbles anything he hoped was enough of an explanation for the poet to drop his preoccupations and not get sentimental with him. But Federico looks awfully concerned and there's still doubt in his eyes like he didn’t really believe anything he just said when he continues, “It’s just- I’m glad these things don’t get into your head, they really shouldn’t. Salvador, you’re... one of a kind, <em> truly a genius like i've never seen before </em>”.</p><p>Its solely because he feels the need to thank Federico’s words and prevent him from being even more corny that Salvador drops his paintbrush and grips the front of his shirt in one hand and founds his lips against his in a way he can even hear the almost bumping of their teeths, not because Federico looked breathtaking under the moonlight entering by the window and first and foremost, not because he’d thought in doing it before more times that he could remember.  </p><p>He can feel the corners of the poet’s mouth twitch and the smile it forms against his lips and the way his own mind goes blank as he corresponds to the kiss. Federico is shoving him to a wall and he more than appreciates it as his legs are beginning to tremble a little as the poet’s seeking tongue is against his lips and he’s opening his mouth unashamedly.</p><p>Maybe Salvador is making soft exclamations against his lips cause of the firm way he’s gripping his hips and in answer the arm not still entlanging his shirt is around the poet’s neck bringing his closer still and he wondered why he hadn't done this before, when they were out and it was dark and the alleys in Madrid were empty or when Federico remained in his room til later and it was just the two of them alone. </p><p> Federico spend all day on the beach with his sister and now after his shower he smelled like soap and cologne and Salvador can still taste in his mouth the oranges from the crespells she made for him and his stubble is again and again scratching his cheek and he’s almost failing to hold himself against the wall.</p><p>The poet moves one of his hands from his hips til he manages to undo the lowest of his shirt buttons and now his warm palm is directly against his abdomen and Salvador feels the knife-edge sensation like it rolling through his spine and he has to part to catch a breath and let out what he wouldn't dare call a whine. </p><p>There’s space separating them again and he shivers a little from the cool ambience meeting his almost feverish skin. Before Salvador can get a little hope that maybe there's more by the way Federico learns in close again and he can see clearly the ink spots that were on his hands now along the poet’s neck and jaw and the warm flutter of his still laboured breath across his cheeks, all he feels in his mouth close to his ear and he can hear the smile on Federico’s lips when he whispers something very taunting about <em> sadly </em> needing to leave him early because tomorrow morning he had somewhere to go with his sister and needed a good night sleep.</p><p>Salvador is too astonished by everything that happened and how he wanted <em> more </em> to properly respond. He just stares at him, mouth still open to catch his breath and lips bruised from the kisses and he must have flaunted a very pitiful face because then Federico is laughing and kissing his cheek, murmuring a <em> Good night, Salvador </em> and walking away, leaving the painter behind with a hitched breath and pounding heart (and maybe a semi-hard in his slacks). </p><p>He assumed the whole <em> kissing-Federico-thing </em>would maybe be just a one time thing, just the consequence of the emotion that took both of them in the moment and it wouldn't happen again as they never really did talk about it in the days that followed.</p><p>However, it is the two of them alone a few days later in his courtyard and he can swear  only a few minutes have passed but now he can hardly see the moon anymore and the light blue of the sky is already beginning to bloom. In front of a bottle of long forgotten gin, they talk softly to not wake his family or the neighbors and having someone coming to curse them, but some silly remark from Federico inevitably makes a laughing fit burst through them both. </p><p>Salvador, who swore to himself in the long dawns he still felt the ghost touches of the poet on his skin he wouldn't be the one to take the first step again if it even happened, can't help the abruptly drive he feels in raising up from his chair so he can put both hands on each side of the poet’s head though the table and put his lips against his again and then everything scent like the lemons they used earlier and Federico's aftershave.</p><p>This one feels much softer and casual and short like it’s part of a routine and maybe that’s what it’s growing into — but when Salvador comes back to his senses he is still insisting to his mind he’s only doing it to quieten the other loud chuckles and not cause he’s been just waiting to have a chance to feel his lips like this again.</p><p>After that, it’s when Federico is packing up his bags in his last day in Cadaqués. The painter knew he would eventually have to return to Granada. This was far from the first farewell between the two of them and he knew he would meet him the next semester back at the residence. He was embarrassed to think about why it affected him so much.<em> God, what did Federico do to him? </em></p><p>There is something very tender in the way he suddenly turns to hug Federico and sighs, placing his head on the curve of his shoulder on which he would rather not think about, especially when the poet pushes Salvador's neck slightly back to kiss his lips like a silent response that he felt the same.</p>
<hr/><p>They lived their best life in Madrid with the money from their works, spending it in the most dull things like riding around town all day in taxis and buying the best wines off the best restaurants, and when he comes back to his dorm and Federico is right behind him and they both are too plastered to do anything other but fell in bed, he knew pronto he would have federico alongside him, mouth hurting from grinning too much as he just let him kiss every each of his face. It was a new routine Salvador couldn’t really complain about, only through the little whines in protest wherever the poet would stop to get up and certify he locked the door before returning to him. </p><p>Federico took good care of him, like he was the one anchoring him into reality, demanding him to eat at least twice a day and to take breaks from his work to get some fresh air. </p><p>Sleeping would still be a difficult topic to him, some nights it wouldn't even happen at all, other times Federico would wake up in the morning to find him passed out on the cold floor, and sometimes, a few hours before the sun would rise, the poet would feel his bed sinking as a slim body was pressed against him and a head nestle in his chest and all he can do is sigh and get back to sleep.</p><p>Then Salvador got expelled. Not that it wasn't something he didn't expect or even planned, but when he realizes that he would leave Federico and the life they had in Madrid behind for good, he couldn't feel anything more than melancholy.</p><p>The night before he left Madrid, was as if all his neuroses from a long time had come together in his head. He feels like a sap by the way he's on edgy all day and when Federico asks what’s wrong he don't need to say anything to explain himself before all of his tears were hidden in the space between a shoulder and a neck — because Federico was always too patient with him, like he was a porcelain piece about to fall off a table, and maybe with anything to do with the poet really was. While he caresses his back and swore to him over and over they would never really fall apart, Salvador could only believe it.</p><p>Even away from him, he knew he would always have their letters. Perhaps he tried too hard, showed himself too much and sought for too many details, but no impression really mattered but what the poet thought about him. His <em> Tu, el único hombre interesante que he conocido </em> e  <em> peintre d’un certain talent et ami (intime) d’un grand poète très joli </em>were enough for the things the poet replies to him and make him need to stop his reading to control the blossoming red in his face.</p><p>Early in the morning he would be at the door of his house watching the sun still put the tones that marked Cadaqués when Federico would get out of the taxi and his sister, who would have been knocking on his bedroom hours before, would come running to hug him as they excitedly greeted each other and talk about the silly things only the two of them cared about and his eyes would leave her only to stare at Salvador, an even bigger grin breaking on his features as he came close and hugged him tight, that little joke of theirs on the tip of his tongue as his lips come close to his ear to whisper “How I missed you, hijito”.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Can you <em> please </em>stop moving?” It didn’t matter what Salvador said, his muse just seemed to be having fun messing with him, moving around the sofa stretching his arms or drinking straight from the bottle of the second wine they opened that day.</p><p>It was such a warm day outside, and even if all the windows were open and the cool gusts of the sea still came in sometimes, the heat was pricking on his skin and pinching at his clothes and making it hard to think. They could be at the beach right now, and it seemed that his muse wanted it too, even though he has the one who suggested they were here first thing in the morning. </p><p>Wherever he looked at the paintings he had done last summer, inspected every single one of them til his vision began to cloud, he could see the traces of Federico in all of them and now he honestly couldn't distinguish when it even started, like disheveled flames he tried to beat down but only grew wider like they were laughing at him - and it seemed only fair to let it grew then.</p><p>But the alcohol and the climate must have been messing with him as he finally drops his stuff on the floor and fumbles over the furniture to lay down on the couch next to him and when he turns to look at Federico there’s an amused grin on his face like Salvador at last understood what he wanted and he can’t help the way he smiles back at him. </p><p>“I've been waiting to draw you for such a long time,” He claims - and it’s genuine. Maybe if he was sober his study would be done by now and he could be allowing the cold water to damp his hair and drown Federico under the waves with him and even later he would still feel sea salt while he ran his lips over the poet’s collar — but he’s definitely drunk and he doesn't even consider what he’s saying when he proceeds “having an image of you so when you leave again I can remember how handsome you were”.</p><p>Federico body’s jerks in a laugh and he can feel it against the cushions. He watches the way the tip of the poet’s tongue rubs across the front of his upper teeth and he quivers like he can feel it in his mouth, his silk black hair still a little damp from the sea in his hands as he lavishes him and— but then Federico is indulging back “You say that as if I don't always come back to you, <em> mi hijito </em>, and even if I didn't, you could just take a photo”.</p><p> The fluctuations of his head and the things Federico’s say make Salvador flings his arm across his face to hide the flush blossoming in his cheeks and the smile still across his features. His fingers are tapping softly against the side of his head like he’s tense and expecting and he gets his voice to sound almost as a whine as he says “<em>Oh</em> <em>señor</em>, it just isn't the same thing and you know it”. He couldn't see how Federico reacted and he said nothing back, but pronto he know he’s right in thinking it would affect him as the sofa shifts and now Federico’s hands were on either side of his head and his body above his and wherever they were talking about wasn’t important anymore as he put his hand on the back of the poet’s neck like this was enough of a silence permission. </p><p>Now his body is against his and he’s kissing him like he longed for, good and proper with tongue and just a hint of teeth. When the poet, rather than stepping away like he always did when things got too much like this, moved his hand from the side of his head to caress his neck and go down to the buttons of his shirt, pushing soft on the white fabric, Salvador nods his head, his hand passing through the dark of his curls like an evidence this wasn’t a chimera of his tired mind.</p><p>When they were in Madrid and it was dark outside and Salvador couldn’t even hear the chitchats in the corridors or the lads playing football in the residence’s yard anymore - when he still can feel the alcohol burning the back of his throat making him dazed midway awaken and somnolent and Federico had him pressed against his bed with kisses in his neck, any of the attempts in arching his back and align his body against his, where he could feel his clothed thigh pressing against him in a way he knew would just<em> splendid </em> , would result in hands coming to hold him down and the only explanation was the poet’s lips forming a <em> not now </em> against his own, and then Federico would stand up and go back to his room and Salvador could only toss his head back to the pillow and suspire. </p><p>But now he was aching for him again, with nibbles in his jawline and fingers grazing his chest. The day was so warm he wasn't bothered in wearing any of the various social clothes like Madrid asked for, and federico’s fingers are fast in unbuttoning his shirt and, as he feels the scratches of the poet’s stubble across his jaw as his neck is peppered with ridiculous little kisses, he even forgets about the temperature. </p><p>Salvador disentangled one hand from the other’s neck to the discomfort in his trousers, but whatever arrangement went racing though his mind were unfilled as Federico’s fingers were alongside his, clutching him through his trousers and then the painter’s whining out of breath - body almost buzzing in everything he's been craving for. </p><p>But then the poet and his lips and his hands and his weight against him are gone and he’s sitting back with his back toward the headrest and a hand supporting his head almost as if it seemed much more interesting to just watch Salvador getting warmer and warmer under his clothes and it didn’t have to be said out loud for him to understand what he was waiting for. Not that voyeurism never crossed his sexual fantasies - It really did, <em> a lot </em> - yet doing it in front of Federico felt different. Federico <em> was </em> different, he was older and much better than him and maybe a lot more experienced and these thoughts were shameful in every way.</p><p>Sure Federico can see the flushy pink of his face and even the prickly heat around his ears and the rapid ups and downs of his rib cage like he’s drowning in deep waters and suddenly the window at his side seems way more interesting than these defiance gaze directed at him. All the way down the shore the waves crashed against the rocks in a ritmic back and forth and it feels almost like calmness — unlike the inconstant pounding of his heart and Salvador can feel the way the hot breeze of the sea hits his under his unbuttoned vest and he’s shivering like a sick man, abandoning his musings back to reality.</p><p>  Federico is still patiently waiting, a tiny smirk around his lips like he could read all the shameful thoughts in his head and maybe Salvador is still under some enchant or his brain doesn’t really have enough ventilation yet cause he's staring back at him and unceremoniously letting his hand go down his waistband.</p><p>The room seems much smaller than it was five minutes ago and he can feel every little jounce in his body, in his thighs and down his back and even hear his tough breathings against his ears, mouth slightly open and whenever he licked his lips he could still taste rose wine.</p><p>Maybe Federico would leave him here untouchable til he’s squirming and flooding and maybe he's punishing him for keeping him there on this dreadful hot day, a worse agony than when he would leave him hanging breathless in his Madrid’s dorm. If they were out perhaps they could get a canoe from one of the fishermen and paddle til he can’t almost see the cost and Federico would make him get down on the ocean with him and the cool splashes against his skin would feel really nice and there, in the seashore he went even since he was a child too scared to swim and nobody was near to see he could put a hand around his head and push the locks in his hair to get him closer so he can kiss his wet face and even lick the little droplets against his chin. </p><p>A whimper leaves his lips and he’s mortified to recall where he’s at, trying to bite his lips to mufle any more sounds and finally he can hear Federico's voice again, stretching out the vowels like this is really amusing to him and Salvador can almost see his grin even if he closed his eyes some moments ago “No, mi hijito, don’t hide yourself like this”.</p><p> Salvador is flustered like he’s vexed and shamed but there’s a smile across his own face when he replies “Says the one still fully dressed,” and maybe it was the way he managed to get that cynical smile off the man’s face or the particularly hard stroke that took the air out of his lungs but he whines sickly “or come here and touch me, just do something”.</p><p>And it works - Then the man with his hair perfectly pinned by gel and not a loose thread in his sweater is kneeling over him again and there's a hand coming to pass through the locks in his hair while the other pushes Salvador's away and he’s in disarray. Wonderful beautiful fingers wrapped around him and a face buried in his neck with nibbles and little bites and any of his attempts to not embarrass himself by making too many noises were thrown out the window. </p><p>The air was thick in the little space they divided now and he could feel the little droplets of sweat rolling down his forehead but Federico didn't seem to care as he submerged him in the warm and steadiness of the touches everywhere on his skin and he almost loses the way the poet spread his legs a little and lowers his pants and underwear below his knees and he can feel his face and chest burning red on how fervely he feels, trying to take even breaths and failing, failing miserably.</p><p> Federico seemed so certain in what he was doing, knowing exactly where to touch him just like his old reveries about him. He’s completely composed while Salvador is a mess about to pass out with just his hands and mouth. There wasn’t a misaligned button or an imperfection in his clothes but the pieces Salvador gripped almost desperately and if he felt the heat too he couldn’t really say, making it inevitable to the painter’s mind to wonder if the man had been with someone else before. </p><p>Of course Salvador had been with some girls like this before, a good part of his clothes gone and lips swollen from kissing for hours, but never to the point of touching them or let himself be touched so intimately, he always let himself get off alone to the thought of being watched, buried by his shyness and the sexual guilt imposed on him all his teens years. </p><p>But Federico was always so careful — but maybe when he went to his bedroom as Salvador whispered solitarily against the silence of his dorm, Federico would be in his own bed, thinking about him the same way he did and everything was whisperings and tremblings — just the idea of him wavering self-control made him bold. But now, in the small divan they were in, everything was better cause he’s getting touched all over by the hands and there’s no room but for Salvador’s growing cries of <em> please </em> and <em> Federico </em> and he’s overwhelmed. </p><p>  Words drop from his lips into the air and he's not really thinking about them, like <em>yes</em> and <em>fuck </em>and other things that would make him blush to even think about later and in any different circumstances this would be awful but Federico is inciting back with <em>like this? </em>and <em>good boy</em> and he can feel the pinch deep in gut like a big wave coming to drown him as he doesn't even resist but he needs more. He’s grabbing his shirt when he whispers “Say something,” to nothing in particular and he restrains his will to kiss the confused face surging from his neck to explain himself better, “poetry” is all he manages to say and Federico doesn't need more than that. </p><p>There are lines being recited in the curve between his neck and shoulder and a hand rapidly and almost hurtful masturbating him and there is nothing more inappropriate and unholy than that, nothing<em> better </em> than this. In the midst of <em> mis hilos de sangre tejen volantes sobre tu falda </em> and <em> en las yemas de tus dedos rumor de rosa encerrada </em> Salvador didn't know if it was his mind or federico that completed the verses whispered to him and no one else.</p><p>The catch and drag of the other man's stubble against Salvador's cheeks every now and then and his wrist shift and roll beneath his skin as he fondled him made a friction pool low on his gut. He can't even hear the words anymore but the steady tone of his voice and he should have felt embarrassed that it took only him a few clumsy strokes. His hips are bucking up and Federico is holding him down and his lips are a cute little pout in the sound of a <em> shh it’s okay </em> and some other things he can’t make out over the rapid pumping of his heart.</p><p>Maybe now that he can feel the fog clouding his thoughts beginning to dissolve the entirety of it all, the sticky in his stomach and remains in Federico's hand, should feel unappealing and shameful and <em> too much </em> but he has no desire to even move. He’s sweating everywhere and his mind is too fuzzier to even come up with anything. The painter never was in such a position to know what must come next and it mortified him to even think about asking Federico something like <em> that </em>. </p><p>But then Federico is lifting his sweater and putting a tip of it between his teeth and lowering his pants and getting a hand on himself and Salvador thinks that maybe he somehow passed out early on the floor because of the heat and everything till now was a lucid dream. He’s fascinated with the rise and fall of his chest as though he were in the grip of a terrible fever and the rose pink blossoming in his chest and all the way up and perhaps everything is spinning in the room but he can't look away from the man between his legs to confirm. </p><p>Salvador is silently blaspheming in all the ways he knows at the sight of haired thighs and a sunbathed torso yet maybe he should start praying in gratitude for it finally happening. When he turns his eyes back up Federico’s condensed gaze is in him and the painter’s shivering hopeless all the way down his spine and maybe he shouldn't just stay still but get his body to cooperate and do something like the things Federico did to him and he could still feel his mind catching up with. </p><p>He’s biting the interior of his cheeks in an endeavor to soothe the red tint attempting to cover his face as he touches the poet’s thigh and traces the little hairs there and he can feel the way it’s quivering and tensing in effort. He can almost see the way he must look so timid when he raises up a little so he can scrape his lips against the skin of his rib cage and plant a kiss in the middle of his chest - Federico did it so naturally with him, but the painter is an awful virgin and it’s ridiculous but then he’s turning his gaze back to the man above him and Federico bit out though his teeth and jerk his shoulders to throw him back against the cushions and Salvador’s face is burning and chest he’s sure Federico can see as he finishes off, tiny, sporadic Federico-like noises muffled by the fabric in his mouth.</p><p>He's so tired and dizzy he can’t even complain when the poet picks the shirt still stuck on him in his armpits to clean the moist mess they made smeared in his chest and this is definitely gross, but <em> God </em> he couldn't care less. Federico collapses next to him, breathing heavy next to his ear and the painter’s mind is still processing everything. It's more an instinct he feels when he arranges him and Federico a little and lets him bury his face in the curve of his neck. Maybe in any other moment he could have worried about the way they must have looked right now, but here the world melting outside wouldn’t catch up with them yet and he’s content in letting himself relax as he combed his fingers through the little hairs in the base of his muse’s hair.</p>
<hr/><p>Salvador wanted to be a man of concrete things, craved to leave behind any subjectivity and focus on what was<em> exact </em> and <em> mathematical </em>, to have complete control over his sentiments — but wherever he was with Federico it would all fall to pieces.</p><p>In moments like this the painter could see how much of a contrast he and Federico were. The poet was a storm of sentimentalism and religiousness coming to his direction, wanting to bring him in like open arms he could fall into. Salvador, though, was hard to open up like the seashells he would find along the beach when he was younger.</p><p>Everything felt like tenderness and sincerity like he could put this feeling in his hands and it shouldn’t be like this, and he should feel repulsed by this - but with Federico it felt just right.</p><p>And when Federico is done with his Ode, between the lines of verses he would never see finer, he can see the constant memoir that the poet can read him like is written all over his face, can see right through him like he could pass his arm though everything that made him and touch between the veins and arteries of his heart. The things that made them the same were not earthly, they had been written a long time ago in a place that he was just beginning to see now.</p><p> The man had him in his hands to do whatever he wished and Salvador was happy to oblige. Whenever he thought about the years he met Federico he couldn't remember what the days were like when he wasn't with him. It was an obsession, every thought of his contaminated with the poetic phenomenon in flesh and bone in front of him. <em> Pon mi nombre en el cuadro para que mi nombre sirva para algo en el mundo. </em>Each painting he did, his face and his engraved where one couldn't comprehend where one started and the other ended and maybe if he looked in the mirror for too long he would see the poet and not himself.</p><p>They were like a rose, Federico would tell him, like serenity and balance and devotion but sometimes he felt like it was on top of the mountain that he couldn't reach. <em> Escriveme mucho cada dia o cada 2 dias ya vez yo casi lo hago. </em> When they were apart perhaps it was anguishness the way he longed to just be with him again but in the poet’s letters he readed again and again in between work breaks he is confided Federico felt just the same, and at nights he could discern the <em> honey-and-tea </em> voice reverberating in his dreams. <em> parece que tengo una cálida moneda de oro en la mano  </em></p><p>
  <em>  y no la puedo soltar.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Pero tampoco quiero soltarla, hijito. </em>
</p><p>He was helpless for him, for the space he was taken in his life and he just <em> let him </em>. He was feverish like an affliction and he couldn’t make an excuse for what it really was or pretend it didn’t exist. Federico could be far away in the country, in Madrid or even in Granada, and his mind would always return to him, couldn’t stop returning to him and after dark when he couldn’t sleep he couldn’t feel even slightly shameful anymore when his fingers are scrabbling his trousers and pushing them down and the shivers rising on his body are not something he tries to hold in.  </p><p>Even in the deep spaces between his certainties and everything that could be of the future, in the dark hours that he was untrue and even harsh with him, Federico was like a warm hand holding his face and a thumb tracing the bone of his jaw, his dark eyes pure and sure and everything is fine.</p><p>Salvador was a non-believer but being with Federico felt like experiencing a miracle right in front of him in the form of a face full of lunares and a misaligned bow tie. Like a sacred soul among sinners like him, and touching him felt more like redemption then profanation.</p><p>He would fall apart again and again in his hands and his spanish in long forgotten to his  motherly catalan, words he's sure the poet don't understand a single bit but his flutterings intonations are enough and when his voice has a desperate pitch as he calls his name, the nibbles against his navel cease and he can see the poet’s face again from under him and there's nothing more cynical than the smirk on his face the tone of his voice when the only thing he says is “Salvador?”.</p><p>Amid his old childhood’s room in the apartment in Figueres and the white walls of the Cadaqués’s villa, Federico would say, not without a proud teasing smirk on his face, that he took away his innocence. Between the poet's drawings and the words he now passed to paper, perhaps they both amended reciprocally as the lines separating them began to blur and as long as Federico told him he was sublime, he was infatuated, especially when he has Federico with his once immaculate hair completely disheveled and his shirt unbuttoned beside him on his pillow and any of his attempts to instigate him back are forgotten as he feels almost devotioness when his thumb comes to trace his lips and he whispers <em> te amo </em> and Salvador can't do nothing but admit the same, trying to not overthink the way his heart just skipped a beat like tiny little pins crossing it.</p><p>Things in Barcelona were always busy. Salvador had his own exhibit in the capital, he received good critics in the journals and even was acknowledged when he went to artistic rendezvous around the city but nothing like Federico. Federico was in all the newspapers and magazines he flicked through and some days the painter almost wouldn’t see him because he would be crowded in interviews.</p><p>He would be cast aside in those situations just like those times in the Residencia. It was impossible to even get a glimpse of him when someone such as Federico was beside him in all his brightness and charm, ready to shine like a mad and fiery diamond and Salvador can sense envyness rising in him like this piercing feeling in the guts when the ocean water’s still too cold. He couldn't pretend to endure those faux artistic upper class that surrounded them even if he tried, couldn’t play the piano and recite poetry and get everyone to gather around to hear him like Federico.</p><p>But in between smoking cigarette after cigarette to take stress off and the smell of the sea of Cadaqués, his jazz records playing again and again in his gramophone and Federico sleeping with his head in his chest, he knew his poet and none of those headaches could reach them where they were barricaded against the world.</p><p>Sometimes Federico imitated some words in catalan he learned from his sister or by watching attentively the people passing by and sometimes he would come up to Salvador wherever he was alone with him and say things like<em> can we go to the beach tomorrow, carinyet? </em> and <em> what do you think of these verses, pesolet? </em> and sometimes just straight up blurting out <em> t'estimo </em>and maybe this felt too much like sugar and syrup but Salvador couldn’t feel sigly troubled by it when there’s a ardent blush tinting his face and a smile he can’t hide as he straightaway agreed to whatever Federico asked.  </p>
<hr/><p>Everything feels like these places that only exist in dreams and reality is altered but one cannot explain why. He feels joyness intoxicating him like he’s tipsy and making him go tumbling til he can put his arms around the poet as they leave the theater where the play premiered and he’s still buzzing with the way nothing went wrong but utterly right and Federico was a success and Salvador felt like this accomplishment was also his. </p><p>The hands loosening the buttons of his shirt in their hotel room are shaking a little but he doesn't say anything as he catches it to kiss each one of his knuckles when they come to undone his tie and he’s still smiling when the poet shoves him to bed. He fancies saying some words to Federico, congratulating him properly, telling him how proud he is of him, but while he had him pressed in bed with a thigh in the friction of his trousers his thoughts can only get fuzzier and warmer and unable to come up with anything but whispers of <em> I love you </em> again and again against his lips. </p><p>He can’t deny how happy he is for him, something they worked together turning just right. Yet, a part of his mind couldn’t help the envy rising in him all over again, wondering if one day he would be glorious like the poet, as planned and deserved, or just stay like a shadow behind him for the end of his years. Nicotine and low life dreams never felt so good, everything was suits and politeness and pietism but federico was sublime like a force of nature and <em> so good </em> to him and he’s sure someday he would feel nostalgic to this - but now he just needed to let it all away for <em> more.</em></p><p>Things always came so easily to Federico, his way of talking to people and mesmerizing them, his ability to express his feelings and be always so sure of himself and writing things immediately impeccably. Salvador should hate him for that - like he hated everyone else for this - but he couldn’t, not when Federico was always there for him, to talk him out wherever he feels lost, to tell him again and again how of a <em> genius </em>he is, to cherish him in a way he don't deserves. He clung to him for so long - like now he clung to his biceps and back as he pushed him closer still.</p><p>He’s been with Federico for so many years and it was like the poet only got more and more while he seemed stuck, he was well known and respected while by his side Salvador was just a companion. Federico was superior to him, the painter adoring or envying him. He could try to keep those feelings away but it all just grew in him like paranoia. </p><p>Federico would say they would always be along with each other, but Salvador knew it was a matter of time until they came apart, each one to his own side. It was like a sharp knife on his back just waiting for what would happen even if the aftercome was obvious. He needed to leave this country, and if Federico couldn’t follow him along maybe this is how it had to happen.</p><p>He remembers the postcard he found in a tiny shop in Cadaqués, some cliche poem about <em> mi Prenda Adorada </em> that he couldn’t help but think of his poet, sending it to him alongside a letter but not before scratching the verse <em> amor extenso y sin fin </em> to write him <em> En ves de sin, léase con. </em> </p><p>Salvador knew their detachment was inevitable, and sometimes he even longed for it to happen, but when he had Federico like this, where he could feel his smile where his face was buried in his neck, all he feels is pure devotion as all he can think is wish they could stay like this forever.</p>
<hr/><p>But then they didn't send letters like they did and federico just couldn't come to Cadaqués frequently like he did, and not that Salvador is opposed to that, he also has his own things to worry about. When Luis invites him to Paris, as he spoke to Federico so much, he doesn't think twice before accepting.</p><p>Luis was harsh and he felt intoxicated by it and everything he achieved in Paris. Maybe Luis had a sensible soul in his interior, like the things he told him with a red face when they were too drunk to care, but the next day he wouldn't be able to look him in the face and Salvador knew he was back in his shell. He was a paranoid like the Freud’s type, like when he would tell him about these stupid <em> cocksuckers </em> he knew back in Madrid and all Salvador cand think is how Federico tolerated him for so long.</p><p>But then he meets her — and everything and everyone else just seems insignificant and now all things are fresh and gold.</p>
<hr/><p>Seven years passed where Salvador didn’t thought in see or talk to Federico, but when he reads in the news the famous poet is returning from his season in America and bringing his new play to Barcelona is like it all comes back to him at once, finding a way in locating the hotel he’s staying and sending a telegram.</p><p> Seven years passed where he didn’t see or talk to Federico, but he still can spot him from far away when he first sees him again, in the shining saloon he told him he would be in a  concert in his honour. </p><p>He could see him from the top of his ivory tower with all the putrefied bourgeois of Barcelona on his surroundings and perhaps now more than ever Federico is one of them - but then the man is in front of him all he can say is a choked “ I missed you” before clinging to him in a hug, a smile against the curve of his neck as Federico whisper to him “Can we get out of here? I hate those people''.</p><p>The next day, all the papers in Barcelona wrote about how the famous playwright hadn’t shown up to the concert so dearly made for him and if the prestigious himself and his friend weren’t still recovering from drinking till the sun rose they would’ve read about it.</p><p>After that it’s not much time till they are together everyday again, Federico leaving his rehearsals early and coming to find him in the city so they could resume the lost time, drinking and chatting and laughing and grumbling about other people like old friends that they never spended all these years apart from one another. </p><p>It also not much time till the day Salvador had way too many glasses of wine and he is sitting way too close to Federico and the bouncing up and down of his legs in nervousness made their knees touch continuously and the smoke from his cigarette in hitting his face and almost intoxicating his nostrils but he couldn’t really care. </p><p>He felt like it was necessary to say something in the moment - when everything was silent but the occasional horns of the traffic below and the sound of his own breath rough is his ear - some words he had been saving all these seven years apart, crossing his head like the perfect retaliation to an argument when it’s already over. But what he had wasn’t resentment or a definitive resolution for them, not something he could put in words so easily like Federico did. However, he’s drunk and an idiot and he opens his mouth anyway, just a bunch of incomprehensible mumbling till he finally manages to blurt out and he can almost feel it resonating in echo in the room “Can i kiss you?”</p><p>But unlike the reveries his head had formed about what the moment would be like, Federico just laughs at him, loud and with his head thrown back against the cushions — a laugh that always felt like the first hits of the sun on a cold morning. The lamps of his hotel room made such good lighting of his face it reminded him of some of the light and shadow theories from the Renaissance Salvador remembers studying in university. When he was younger and foolisher he didn’t feel the need to ask wherever they kissed, but now things were complicated and it was better to be sure even if he felt he was about to start begging.</p><p> He knew Gala was in the room right next to him, not it the same as his — she always favored them to stay in separate hotel rooms, saying she needed to have some privacy — and while Federico walked through the room some minutes ago as they returned from their night out, sitting shamelessly on the sofa and lighting his cigarette, it was like he knew it too. The poet seems to also think about it, as he finally calms himself down and there were still some tears in the corners of his eyes when he turns back to him and emphasizes “Salvador, <em> you’re married </em>” and it sounds much more a teasing tone than a truly serious one. </p><p>“I know but—” he takes a deep breath, unable to look him in the eyes as he considered something rational to say even if his mind was far away from anything to do with certainties “It’s different. We’re different. I’m sure she wouldn't mind it, I don't mind when she does it. You and Gala would really like each other if you talked mor- <em> oh </em>”.</p><p>He’s making a fool of himself, something frequent wherever he was with Federico no matter how many years passed, but the poet seems to accept the argument as he <em> gladly </em> doesn’t even let him finish talking before pushing his neck in to put his lips against his, the taste of red wine and nicotine and <em> Federico </em> like all these years ago. Now, while he kissed the wine out of his laugh and there’s a hand gradually caressing from the top of his knee to his inner thigh, he thinks maybe she wouldn't really mind — as he didn’t mind the other men she took to her bedroom, and that was enough for him as his thoughts were debauched to Federico’s name over and over.</p><p>The months Federico spent in Barcelona he spent with him. A second chance or relapse, things didn't feel the same and maybe time was too short. He wouldn't have Federico in his bed like before, because even on the nights when they drank too much and the clock pointed to 3 a.m, Federico would take the foldings out of his shirt and arranged his hair back in place and return to his own hotel even with the streets empty and the rain shed down. Maybe Federico would say something to him and kiss him on the forehead before leaving but he was always too groggy to be sure of what really happened. </p><p>Salvador knew he was with someone back in his own hotel room, there were rumors about him and his so called secretary, a boy not talented enough to be alongside someone like Federico but young and pretty like he once was, and he knew the poet enough to know they were true. Not that he was going to ask him that, it feels embarrassing to even think of it and furthermore, the loathing of glimpsing the truth — the deep gut feeling of jealousy, of needing to accept he wasn’t the only object of his attention like he once was, having to admit to himself how much he depended on how Federico saw him. Salvador also had someone with him and even if he could stop the world from turning, there was nothing he could say or do for his feelings for the poet that wouldn’t make him sound insincere. </p><p>And maybe it would stay like this, things that neither of them would say and they would have to live only with the portion that reaches the light. But at that time the poems Federico recited were always his beloved ode and the ones Salvador still had engraved in the back of his brain and even when people came to praise him his attentions would be in the painter, eyes staring at him fondly and a smile calling him in and maybe everything was fine.</p><p>In his last days with the poet he would take him to a cafeteria downtown like the ones they used to go when younger and a jazz band would play like the discs they liked. Federico talked about the things he had been doing while he devoured a piece of chocolate pie Salvador promised to buy him some days before and the painter listened mindfully, noticing how the man sitting before him looked joyful like when he would take him to beach and dive deep under the cold, tranquil waters with him all these years ago.</p><p> But then Federico’s tone changes and he’s staring at him like he just descended from the sky above and Salvador’s eyes are wild and his cheeks burning a little when he begins, “All these years without seeing each other and look - doesn't it feel like all those years ago? Maybe we really are twin souls. If something happened to me and I didn’t see you one last time I don’t know what would be of me,” and then he’s smirking again as if the moment is over and Salvador is sure when he continues is just to stir him up, “If it wasn’t Luis telling me you were back in Barcelona, we wouldn’t have met again. Maybe you should talk to him too”. </p><p>Federico was always like that, as if death was around every corner waiting for him. He was overdramatic and at that moment Salvador could only laugh even if he had been thinking the same thing since the first day. “Can you not talk about Luis right now? It breaks the mood” is everything he can answer but he still puts his hand against his over the table anyway, shaking it in affection as he smiles fondly at the poet, waiting to be alone with him again so he could kiss every single one of the lunares on his face.</p><p>But now everything seemed like a farewell. He knew Federico’s theater company would move on to Madrid after all those months in Barcelona and the man himself would persistently promise him he would return in the next year so they work together like they wanted. The last time he sees his poet, in the train platform in Barcelona, Salvador is trying to convince him to travel with him — and it almost seems like that time in between beer bottles and piano notes — going away from the mess Spain was becoming and to “Italy, New York, wherever you prefer”. All he could say was useless, the poet is stubborn and certain he needs to see his family and work on some new pieces and when the train comes and Federico learns to hug him goodbye, all he can do is hug him close and sigh against his shoulder, wishing the poet were right. When Federico whispers<em> goodbye, Salvador </em>before parting, his name never sounded so different in his own ears.</p><p>The things he heard from Federico next weren't the papers talking about interviews or plays premiered anymore but things he didn't want to know, nevertheless they chased him down every corner in the streets and at night resonated in his mind like a shadow holding him down and keeping him still. Every canvas was a face laughing at him and telling him it was his fault, for not insisting enough, for going away and all there was now were bodies left behind for him to bury and he was Polux with his Leda but not his Castor for everything to come.</p>
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